The wind runner book 10.., p.46
The Wind Runner: Book 10 (The Wandering Inn), page 46
“My name is Venaz, City Runner Luan Khumalo. I’ve told you it twice now. Remember it, for it will one day be famous. So, do we have a deal?”
Luan stared at Venaz, rubbing his knuckles. Then he had to laugh. The Lizardwoman stepped back, sweeping her fragile vials of ink out of the way as he and Venaz sized each other up a second time.
“Okay, what’s the mission? How dangerous is it?”
“Not at all. But I require your word before I tell you more than the rough details.”
“Tell me the basics, then. I won’t commit to anything too dangerous. Or illegal.”
Venaz nodded. He spoke briskly now, eyeing the designs the [Tattooist] hopefully shoved in front of his face and waving them away.
“Twenty gold pieces to deliver a small object to my person alone in a port city north of here. The danger to you will be minimal, although you will have to be swift and precise. There may be pursuers, but if you are caught—which you will not be because you are a significant portion of my plan—you will likely only be held for a few hours. At most, roughed up.”
Luan didn’t know if he liked that. But—twenty gold pieces? He heard the Lizardwoman gulp and agreed. That was a good job. Especially if the danger wasn’t that great. Still—Luan eyed Venaz and folded his arms.
“No. Forty.”
“Forty? For a small delivery? You overestimate your worth.”
Venaz’s eyebrows shot up. Luan shook his head.
“Forty gold pieces. You researched me, and you admitted that I am an important part of your plans. You need a fast City Runner on the water who is not a Courier. I’m your best option, and you know it.”
The Minotaur glowered. He muttered to himself. Luan thought he caught ‘must be what the Professor’s always telling me about’ before he looked up abruptly and nodded.
“Fine. Forty.”
Luan thought for a second and then shook his head.
“It’s sixty gold pieces now.”
“What?”
“The price went up.”
“In two seconds?”
“I just remembered that you insulted me and bothered me when I asked to be left alone. So, sixty gold pieces, friend. Can you pay that much?”
“Yes. Sixty, damn it, but not a copper piece higher.”
Venaz growled in disgust and gave Luan something almost approaching a look of admiration. He sighed.
“I’ll pay you ten pieces up front, fifty on delivery. Do we have a deal?”
He held out a hand. Luan hesitated.
“One last thing. Promise me no one will be hurt by what you’re doing? No one dies? I’m not bringing something illegal or that harms someone else?”
If the Minotaur couldn’t make that promise, Luan would do it anyways. But Venaz just grinned.
“No one dies. As for harm—they’ll be bruised, maybe a few broken bones at most. But this is no war. Runners have their codes about interfering in battle, after all.”
That was enough. More than enough for sixty gold pieces. Luan had risked his neck for less. He held out his hand gingerly. Venaz gave Luan a crushing handshake and then nodded to the side. The [Tattooist] stretched her arms, sitting by the closed door as Venaz and Luan spoke in low voices. Luan listened, no longer annoyed, but a Runner listening to a well-paying client.
Outside, the city of Cinfal hustled and bustled and presumably got on with their lives. Inside the parlor, though, the Lizardwoman [Tattooist] debated over what inking she’d give the Minotaur, trying not to listen as he spoke to Luan. Venaz’s voice was quiet, his eyes alight as he showed Luan a map, then another map, and then explained why three weeks was so important and where Luan fit in.
“That you don’t know my name means you don’t get what’s happening. Well, in three weeks, an annual event occurs. Wait—no, biennial. No—hold on, the Professor sometimes doesn’t hold it at all. But it is a significant event, and I will be participating in it, as will my class. And many of those in the former classes, which is why I intend to win. You see, once every…few years, the Professor, whom you know as the Titan of Baleros, has a little game…”
Luan jerked at the name. Venaz grinned, his eyes alight. And Luan realized he’d quite forgotten to ask why Venaz needed someone with the skills of a Courier. Or exactly who would be chasing him. But it was too late to back out now. And on Luan’s wrist were etched the two names. So long as he had that, he could do anything.
——
So it was that in Cinfal, the best laid plans of men and Minotaurs were begun. But in a city much further inland, a creature far smaller than a man or Minotaur was hard at work. He was, in fact, about the same size as a mouse. But Niers Astoragon was considerably more dangerous than a mouse, and after a certain encounter with some rats, he’d begun hunting the damn things at night. After all, the greatest [Strategist] in all of Baleros had to find enjoyment somewhere, didn’t he?
He wasn’t quite enjoying himself now. Not that he was miserable, but Niers was more in a state of mind that could be described as busy concentration rather than actual fun. Luan would have understood; there was a joy to doing something you could do, but other times it was just the work of it that kept you going. Work, and pride in your work.
Not that Niers was rowing a boat. Rather, he was poring over a piece of paper, walking down and reading the neatly-written words row by row. It was slightly tedious, and Niers debated hopping back onto his reading seat so he could read them from above. But he liked to move, and sitting meant he’d have to ask someone else to bring the next paper over, which was a waste of time.
“Hah!”
That was all the Fraerling said as he reached the end of the report. He stamped on the carefully written signature and the wax seal below it and then kicked the piece of paper off the desk. A hand caught it as the paper dropped to the ground. Peclir Im, the [Chamberlain] of the Forgotten Wing company and the man responsible for keeping a good portion of the citadel that was Niers’ academy and home running, picked up the paper and put it in another pile as Niers strode past him for another report.
“That idiot Balegilt wants two more [Mages]? Write a reply and tell him he can have his [Mages] when he learns not to let [Snipers] pick them off! He’ll go without, and he can take his entire company to hell if he objects!”
Peclir Im nodded.
“You wish me to write that verbatim, sir? Or in spirit?”
Niers paused.
“In spirit, I suppose. Balegilt’s Marsh Troll company is useful. But damn them if they’re not careless. Give him a warning, Peclir. If he keeps losing our people, we will sever our ties with him.”
“I shall make a proper note.”
Peclir did just that, jotting Niers’ reply down on a piece of parchment he held. The Titan scowled.
“Where’s the next report?”
“Here, sir. And I repeat, if you wish, we could hire a Fraerling to copy all this down. It would save you the necessity of calling on myself—”
“I don’t need a [Scribe] reading all this confidential information, Peclir. Regular reports are fine by me.”
“As you wish. This is a detail by our 14th Division.”
“Where did we put—ah, right. Holding action. And they’re facing…”
Niers read the brief and much less eloquent message by one of his field commanders. He grimaced.
“Skirmishes with Centaurs. Oh, how wonderful. It must be a local clan. Not a company; they’re too scattered. We must have angered the entire area somehow. Send in our [Diplomats]. And make sure they’re Centaurs too. The nuance will be lost on someone not of that species. In the meantime, the 14th is to avoid killing—if possible. Next?”
Peclir checked his notes.
“There are two battles taking place at…Selx’s Ravine and the Olkem Grasslands. I have the coordinates.”
“Show me. Nothing too large, I hope?”
“You would have been notified, sir. These are allied companies—”
“We still want to win, though. Let’s see what their odds are. Ah. This would be that damned mine we’ve been fighting over. If we take it, I’m sending some high-level [Miners] to get what we can and then abandon the place. And the other…? Oh.”
Niers Astoragon looked down at the magical map as Peclir indicated the two battlegrounds. He grimaced, told Peclir to message one of the two commanders embroiled in the battles to retreat if things went south, and got back to work. Peclir hurried over to the door to issue a few instructions to a waiting attendant helper, who in turn hurried off to make the necessary [Message] spells. By the time he got back, Niers was kicking his way across the desk.
“Casualty reports. Income reports. Where are my level reports?”
“Here, sir.”
Peclir handed Niers a list of every person of note who’d leveled in Niers’ company this week. That included class changes and gained Skills. The [Strategist] ran his eye down the list, grunting as he saw nothing too extraordinary.
“Alright. We’re moving past supply counts for now, Peclir. We’ve figured out what was draining our ration of mana potions, and no one’s complained. And I’m sick of doing numbers. I’ll make the new students do it as an exercise in logistics. Onto incomes. Another wonder. Where’s the abacus? Not yours. I meant mine.”
The Fraerling was managing his company. Or rather, to put it another way, overseeing the affairs of the Forgotten Wing Company, one of the Four Great Companies of Baleros and arguably one of the powers of the world. And he was doing it while kicking over empty ink pots, kicking over full ink pots and swearing, hunting for a cheese crumb as a snack, and generally mucking about.
In ink.
It wasn’t that Niers wasn’t taking this seriously. But the reports and questions on Niers’ desk were things he didn’t strictly need to take care of himself. He had a system in place, and if he’d let it work, nothing would have reached his attention. That was the point of a good chain of command. Niers had trained his subordinates to take care of all the things he was poring over.
But someone had to be at the top, and since Foliana was there, it fell to Niers. He didn’t obsess over every detail all the time, but he made it a point to do a deep inspection of all his company’s affairs at least once a week. And that was on top of giving orders to the officers, various company commanders, and so on for large-scale movements, vacations, and so on.
“Enough, Peclir. We’re good on income reports.”
At last, Niers sighed and sat back. The various holdings of the Forgotten Wing company, from direct control to payments from protected cities, to their income in trade and goods bought and sold and any number of sources were finally looked over. Peclir knuckled his back and straightened.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Give me…five minutes. Or I’ll drown myself in that ink pot.”
“I’ll procure a fresh one in that eventuality.”
Peclir gave Niers a moment. The Fraerling grinned and then sighed. A thousand things his company was doing, and a thousand little mistakes that could lead to big ones if no one was watching.
Accumulating too many gemstones and selling them in bulk would crash a market. Bunching up too many sheep in one place meant they could all catch a disease. Taking away a city’s main source of income meant it grew poorer and unrest started. Not to mention directing forces, conducting diplomacy with the thousands of companies in Baleros, fighting monsters, worrying about that damned Yellow Rivers disease in the brothels…
There was always something to do if you looked for it. That was the curse of command. The more you could do, the less time you had to do it. How could you ever quit? The answer was that you couldn’t. Not if you yourself were irreplaceable.
“This is the problem with becoming one of the Four Great companies in one lifetime. Not enough experience and not enough high-level subordinates to fall back on. Right, Foliana? Foliana?”
Niers looked up. No one replied, so the Squirrel Beastkin wasn’t in the room. He shrugged and went on talking.
“If one of us dies, it falls apart. Which would please the others no end. But if we keep doing well, we die anyways of old age. Or we slow down and die. The point is, we need fresh blood. Our next generation has to be as good as we are, or better, or we should scrap the company now rather than watch it fall apart and come back to bite us. And we’ve got a few good candidates, but not enough. So what do we do? Find loyal personnel abroad or hope we gain more good recruits? Because if we need it—”
“I thought the company was doing quite well as it was, sir.”
Peclir appeared in the doorway, fresh inkpot in hand. Niers sat up. Peclir set the pot down next to him. The tiny [Strategist] grinned up at the Human.
“You’d think so, Peclir. But that only accounts for when I am here. When I’m here, the company functions well. But if I go for a while…”
“Ah. You require a fallback for your vacation.”
Peclir raised an eyebrow. He had to be aware of Niers’ plans. You couldn’t hide much from a [Chamberlain]. You had to trust them. Even so, Niers hesitated.
“Yes. I’m hoping to get some system in place. More so than we already have in case of emergencies, that is. But I won’t leave until I’m sure I can trust this company to more than that tree rat.”
“Our glorious leader?”
“Who? Foliana, yes. She needs subordinates she can order about in my absence besides you. Where is she, by the way?”
Normally, Foliana would be here, listening to Niers. Although she was as helpful as a wet sponge. The head of the Forgotten Wing company was, in fact, not good at any facet of managing it. But she did stick about, if only to needle Niers. The Fraerling looked inquiringly at Peclir. The man pointed above.
“I believe she’s currently eating oysters in her room, sir.”
“And throwing up, no doubt. She hates oysters.”
Niers groaned. He was going to have to endure Foliana eating every variety of oyster under the sun for the next few days or even weeks.
“Who’s the target this time?”
“She did not say, sir. And I did not ask.”
“Fair enough.”
Not even Peclir would be that keen to ask Foliana who she was targeting. But he had to be guessing. The oysters were a big clue. As was Foliana’s diet in general, that was.
Muffins, spaghetti. Oysters today. As soon as Foliana completed her job, it would be something else. Fruits, maybe. Dates. Or some other dish, foul or fair.
It wasn’t a secret. When Three-Color Stalker ate your food of choice, she was aiming for you. Some said it was a way to get inside your head. Freak you out that she was coming. Others claimed it was so that the target would be lulled by a familiar smell. A few idiot [Mages] in Wistram thought it was so Foliana could study her victims through some kind of food-psychology.
“Why does Lady Foliana eat the food of her victims, Lord Astoragon?”
Today was the day Peclir finally asked the question. Niers sat up and grinned. It had to have eaten away at the man, but he’d been working here for years without so much as asking it. Now that was self-control. And he was only too happy to answer. Again, it wasn’t a secret if you were in the know.
“Not to camouflage herself or anything stupid like that, Peclir. The reason is simple: she’s showing off. Warning her target.”
“Ah. To disturb them?”
“Hardly.”
Peclir’s eyebrows shot up. Niers chuckled to himself. That was what people didn’t get.
“It’s just to warn them. Nothing else. No advantage in it—and a lot of disadvantage if it’s something Foliana hates. But she does it because it’s her thing. Everyone needs a calling card. What’s the point of doing something if it isn’t with style?”
“That’s the entire reason?”
“Yup.”
The [Chamberlain] closed his eyes for a moment.
“Another grand mystery, solved. Well, thank you, sir. I believe I’ll lie down and weep for the grandiose mysteries and designs of the powerful after we’re done here.”
“You do that.”
Niers laughed. Peclir didn’t get it. But when you were that high-level, your reputation meant as much as actual efficiency. When Foliana ate oysters, anyone within a thousand miles who loved the dish started watching the shadows. It meant that someone who loved oysters was her next target. How much better was that reaction than being the silent, unpredictable killer?
“I’m feeling better now, Peclir.”
“I am pleased my disappointment fuels you, Lord Astoragon.”
Niers threw a tiny bit of chalk at Peclir. It bounced off a button on his lapel and was promptly lost forever. The [Strategist] looked at his papers and sighed.
“Enough reports. Let’s do the daily tasks. Meetings, I think. Have I got any?”
He usually did. Niers’ day was filled from start to finish with things he could be doing, but didn’t. For whatever reason, he’d put them off, delay, forget entirely—and spring on things that really mattered. He liked unpredictability, at least from his side. After all, the Titan of Baleros had enemies, and he didn’t like being caught out.
But today at least, this year, had been peaceful. Only a few battles, all low-scale. Not every year in Baleros was huge bloody wars, at least for a Great Company. In fact, the Four Great Companies had found that peace was more profitable for them, at least in the long run. They could earn money off of their holdings and trade, and as a result, it was their allied companies, smaller divisions, and so on that usually saw fighting.
Baleros was bloody, but if two or more Great Companies fought, the jungles would turn red with blood. And that wasn’t what anyone wanted. For the moment, at least.
So Niers’ day-to-day life looked like this: check the health of his company. Make big decisions like rising to provocation, seizing resources, etc. Meet with those too important to ignore. Annoy Foliana. Eat. Sleep. Be annoyed by Foliana.
Teach his students. If every Great Company had their specialty, like the Iron Vanguard’s emphasis on outfitting their soldiers and constructing military bastions, the Forgotten Wing company’s trait was its base of officers. It trained students from around the world into military geniuses.
